Vox Populi
by Ziven
Summary: A Pharaoh's world is not only his own — it is his people's. -Mahaado x Atem- done for the YGO fanfiction Contest.


**Vox Populi**

The sky had never shone such a dark red as it did now, or at least it seemed. The Pharaoh was worried. The rains had not come in such a long time, and he feared that the blood of the deceased had laid a curse of sorts upon the land. Despite his young age he was aware that his father's time had held much fighting, discourse and anger—he had resolved to see to it that there would not be such insurgence in his own reign, but all of the previous Pharaoh's kindnesses. There were so many things at stake: his family's honor and legacy, respect amongst other rulers near and far, foreign trade; but most important of all, the people. He wanted to bring them together, to give them someone that they would be able to trust, to rely on—to believe in. It was a large weight on his shoulders, and he was barely a man. He did not know if he could do it. His own pain threatened to overcome the capacity to relate to his subjects, as red overcame blue in the heavens before nightfall; that was unacceptable. He could not afford to be so easily moved as the sky.

But he was barely a man, and he had lost his father.

He took a deep breath, turning away from the scene before him, the edges of the clouds tipped with violet as night gripped the edges of the world. Soon the evening would conquer the day, and the desert sands would blow with chilling gusts. The tri-color haired man wrapped his arms around himself in anticipation. His Priests would worry if he did not hurry inside. They always worried, and he worried as well, although not in the same way. Atem was sure that Mahaad was already combing the halls.

"Surveying your Kingdom?" He had been right. There he was, dressed in his robes, the Millennium Ring hanging about his neck. Despite his easy going words, Atem could feel the Priest's terse undertone. Mahaad was ever vigilant; the Palace could have been attacked just that moment and his lifelong caretaker would have been at a ready defense.

"Assessing it would be more accurate," Atem said, turning back to see that the barrier that kept night from the land was continuing to fail. "Measuring myself against what I am said to rule. What is a Pharaoh, Mahaad, that pales in comparison to what he owns, what has been built by his family?" There was a twinge in his heart, but he ignored it. "I should not be Pharaoh. I cannot do the land—my people—justice." _My father should be Pharaoh. He should be here._ The words went unsaid. He was not brave enough to admit his weakness by saying them. Mahaad was silent for many moments, which was not always like him. For the hair's breadth of a second Atem wondered if something was wrong—if there was an odd sound or a sight down below that the man before him had seen and he had not. He had always felt that Mahaad filled in the gaps in his prowess and knowledge. The strong-jawed Priest was always there, lending missing information, counsel for a difficult decision, and submission to encourage others to do the same. It should not have been that way. Atem should have had all of the answers; he should have been able to make the hard decisions and the other Priests should not ever have reason to question him. But it was not so. The death of Aknamkanon still shook the hearts of the men who defended the Kingdom and his ghost was seen in every detail of Atem, scrutinizing, comparing—just the way that Yami measured himself to the people.

Then he heard the words, "A man has cause for regret only when he sows and no one reaps," Priest Mahaad said. A hand on his shoulder accompanied the phrase, and a tight squeeze that the young Pharaoh knew none other than himself would ever receive. There were too many things to be said and not enough emotion to convey them; too many things to react to. Atem did not want his companion to see his tears, which held each of the different heartaches he felt within. He did not say anything because they would be heard—his heart would be heard—and a Kingdom did not exist on the heart of its ruler, but on those that served him. His Priest continued. "As unruly as things may seem, Pharaoh, we are at peace now. There are no more attacks—you must use this opportunity to help your people flourish, and not focus on yourself. When a ruler is afflicted, the hearts of the people are strained; when the people are afflicted, a ruler's heart should be broken." The hand's grip on Atem's shoulder grew tighter, tense with the urge to turn him but the young Pharaoh didn't yield. The sky was almost half night and half day, the fight continuing despite knowing that each day was the same. "You must put them first."

* * *

The winds blew against the shawl covering his face, lifting the cloth a little. Atem's hand pushed it down, making sure that the other was tightly clasped around his horse's reigns. Amethyst eyes scanned the immediate surrounding area for signs of…anything living. The land around the Nile had long since been abandoned, in the times before his father's father's time, but somehow it seemed worse this year than he had ever remembered. It was not something that the Pharaoh typically needed to see, but Atem had insisted; he had never seen the flooding before his own eyes—even his father had not ventured to the river; it flooded every year without fail. But the man wanted to see what damage it caused the land himself, to see how much of their resources were being lost this year. There he sat, eyes squinting in the sunlight. The wind was intensified over the water, and his stallion's hooves and lower legs were covered in water. Three of his Priests were with him: Mahaad, Isis and Karim. They all volunteered to go with him, but Atem refused to be selfish enough to leave the Palace unguarded and they wouldn't allow him to fend for his own unattended.

Atem turned his steed around to face his Priests, and he said, "Is there anyone directly affected by this? Is there any loss?"

"There is always a bit of loss, my Pharaoh," Isis called, her voice lashing out loudly against the wind. "But we have grown more accurate at predicting when the river will flood. The workers usually harvest as much before that time as possible."

"The river floods early," Karim said, eyes hardened against the wind, and said nothing else.

"No losses this year," Mahaad added. "But there have been in the past, when the tide comes in early."

Atem turned to Isis. "Is there any way to foresee this, so that we can avoid deaths in the future?"

"Nature is controlled by the Gods themselves, Pharaoh," she confessed. "And even I cannot predict the decisions of the Gods. My apologies for my incompetence."

"The will of the Gods cannot be counted as a strike against you. Consider the matter forgotten." But Atem spent that day riding around, searching for the place where the river would break. His priests had been right; there were not any people for miles around, and he felt disconnected. He had heard about the Nile floods but never seen it for his own. Even when Isis and Karim rode away to return to the palace and he was left alone with Mahaad, who was considered more than formidable for the task of protecting the ruler, he still rode. There was something that he was a searching for—a feeling, some emotion; but it would not come.

"Pharaoh," Mahaad called, his voice loud over the soften winds, his eyes glaring at his King even as Atem's horse impatiently plodded through the sand, as nervous and indecisive as his rider. "What is it that you are looking for? No one was hurt here; crops were lost but most likely what we were expecting." The Pharaoh's horse whinnied and trotted aggressively toward Mahaad's mare, who took a defensive step back. The Priest didn't need to see his lover's face to know that there were tears hiding behind his veil. "…what did you come here to see?"

"How many people are dying and starving?" Atem asked. "How many people will suffer because of the lack of grain harvested near the Nile."

"My Pharaoh, we've survived on no more than what we've had. The Nile floods every year—"

"But I've never seen it!"

"You have seen it today, Atem."

"We have extra grain in the storehouse for my Palace. Should we not provide it?"

"We will provide if there is a shortage or famine."

"You sound so unconcerned." Atem's voice was a hiss, the anger of a man who felt guilty for the plights of others.

"There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. We must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures," Mahaad replied. "We did what we could for those that we could. There have been several years where we've lost workers, and homes to the Nile when it decides to spread. We lost five men last year during your father's reign, and although the river helped us defeat the Invaders, we must also take into account our luck. We cannot control the sea, Pharaoh. We must do what we can. Do you not agree?" But Mahaad was impressed—here he was, the man that he adored, heart vying for a connection to the land that his people. Now was not the time to express his affection, but _he_ would do what _he_ could. And that included leading their sensitive Pharaoh back to his palace in safety.

* * *

The Pharaoh, in an uncommon fit of happiness, wished to travel to the market. The idea had first been proposed to Mahaad in confidence, his yearning to see what his subjects saw and live the way that they lived, but it was much too dangerous that way. Mahaad spoke to Shimon about it, and while the old man rejected the idea at first at Mahaad's insistence he relented. Set was also opposed to the idea, but Karim had no objections. Isis couldn't make up her mind at whether or not the affair would be a disaster, but the Pharaoh used his clout to ensure that he had his way. It was not something that Atem was proud of, but it was something that he really wanted, and it was. There has been too much heartache lately, too much time for thinking of his father when he should have been focusing on them. Perhaps a day in the company of the markets would help him.

His Priests did not allow him to travel alone, however; he had to travel in the Caravan, with one of them accompanying them inside. Atem could defend himself, and they did not wish to all leave the Palace in favor of a recreational excursion. Mahaad, as always, volunteered for the position and he would not have it any other way. It was difficult, being so close to each other and being unable to raise suspicion, but they managed, settling for a knowing glance—that spoke of many things—was intense enough to last the ride into town. There were guards with the Caravan for standard protection, and Mana walked alongside the traveling tent as an escort, ready to purchase anything that may have caught the Pharaoh's eye. Mahaad had insisted that she come along although Atem had repeatedly stated that he was not going to buy a single thing, but he suspected that Mana had wanted a bit of time outdoors as well.

Crowds parted and people stared at them as they went through the well-trodden roads, the wealthy and poor alike stopping in their tracks. Atem had not wanted to enter into the city this way, but it seemed that there was no choice and that all attention was upon him. He felt Mahaad's hand on his calf for comfort, the highest the Priest dare touch him, and said, "I'm not nervous, Mahaad; I'm fine."

"Are you now?"

"No one is going to speak to me," Atem said, sighing wistfully at the crowd.

"As though they would speak if they saw you in person?"

"I am astonished that there has not been an attack on my life."

Mahaad's eyes widened. "Why would my Pharaoh say such a thing?"

"I don't think it would be that difficult for foresee. My father's reign was soaked in blood. Who am I? I am his son. They would think the same of me."

"We were invaded—it is not the same thing as useless war. We _protected_ our people."

"And they still died. I have a feeling of dread, Mahaad. I fear that it is all over."

"You are a good man, Atem. I have known you for a long time." The blush that accompanied the statement was not on the Priest's face, but in his eyes.

Atem seemed oblivious. "I am young. I could become anything at this point—a tyrant, for example; a backstabber, a liar, a—" Atem stopped speaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man chasing a boy, the boy's hand clearly filled with dates as he scurried, knocking people out of the way; their attention turned to the boy for a moment, and even Mana was pointing from outside. "What's—did that child just…?" He looked at Mahaad. "Shall I send a guard to capture him for the man?"

Mahaad shook his head. "If you interfere with this, then you shall have to interfere with everything."

"That man is losing property. What would we do when a boy tries to steal from _my_ storehouse?"

"What is yours is the peoples, but what is theirs is theirs. It is not the same thing. Besides, Atem, that boy is very clearly starved. I hope that he gets away."

Atem's eyebrows rose. "Are you condoning theft?"

"There is honor among thieves," Mahaad looked down. "Many other have gotten away with taking a bit of something from the markets. It is difficult to obtain spare food, and the merchants make more than their weight in currency every day. There is no injustice here. The boy took merely what he needed to survive, and nothing more."

"That's a lot of dates for a small child."

"Wouldn't you need as many if you were starved?"

Atem's voice grew quiet. "I would not know. I have never been starved."

Mahaad smiled. "Then allow the boy to have the dates."

* * *

The palace was in disarray; Atem could do nothing but stand there, his father's old, rotting body on the ground before him. He was filled with so many things—rage at the Thief King who somehow had the most powerful Ka that he had seen in a civilian, sadness at being reminded so closely of his father, and guilt to know that somehow his father had been involved in the sacking and pillaging of a village that had done nothing. The white haired stranger, the only survivor, had struck fear into the Pharaoh. His Priests were there, defending him, and they were losing; he had stepped in on account of his father's body, his grave, which had been desecrated; but when the villain was gone—was he a villain, or a victim?—Atem had no more words, no more anything. His fists shook in a delicate rage, his body shook in rage. His world was ending. The sky was appropriately dark. Mahaad was grasping his shoulders, shaking him in the wake of his smaller confrontation with Thief Bakura, survivor of Kul Elna. Atem's eyes searched Mahaad's for any information, but it was his first time hearing of this as well.

"Is the Pharaoh safe?" Isis asked. Karim nodded and grunted.

"He is fine," Mahaad assured them.

"…how could this happen?" Atem whispered.

"What?" the man before him questioned. "I couldn't hear…"

"How could this happen? Who authorized the sacrificing of another _village_?"

Set now stood beside him. "…I did not know about it. None of us knew." He said nothing else, but Atem knew what his silence meant. His father had given the order, but that _was not right_. "We will kill him for such accusations, Pharaoh," he added coolly. "And he ransacked your father's burial space. He must die for that as well."

"We cannot stop him," Atem said. "…we can't…"

Mahaad knew what he was thinking. "We must consider his case," he said to the others.

"How dare we consider the case of a thief?" Shimon said. "He's clearly lying!"

"War makes thieves and peace hangs them," was the reply. "It is possible that he is the sole survivor of that massacre. The city was also burned to the ground. There is no evidence to prove or disprove it."

"He could have burned his own city to the ground," Set said. "He would believe it. Isis," he said, turning to see her picking herself up from the ground. "Are you alright? Can you tell if he is lying or not?"

"She is still overwhelmed by his Ka," Shimon reported.

"What I will say," Mahaad added, "is that right or wrong, he threatens the Kingdom. Be him victim or evil, I cannot judge. Attacking the Pharaoh and the people are another matter. He cannot be allowed to find the power he seeks. We must keep it away from him at all costs. Men become old, but they never become good. He will be a problem in the future if he is not stopped now. He will not be changing his opinion of the Pharaoh _or_ his father." They all looked to the corpse on the ground, and knew that his words were true.

* * *

Mahaad had never the opportunity to hold his Pharaoh in the way that he was doing now; the other Priests were gone—Mahaad had felt their spirits waver and disappear as they were. He and Set and Isis were all that were left of the six, and the Pharaoh was feeling their pain. Were they allowed to be close like this, even in tragedy? It was selfish of him to think like this, to hold the Pharaoh close and feel the beating of his heart and listen to this breathy tears as he steeled himself for battle with the Thief by purging his own sadness? Too much had happened in this boy's time; too much sorrow and fighting and confrontation—too many questions unanswered, not enough time to thoroughly investigate anything. The world hung in the balance and that was too much for any Pharaoh. Even Atem's father had not faced odds this way. There were no words. Just tears and arms that were holding the ruler up when he could support himself. Mahaad knew that if the other had passed he would pass also, and Isis also, and Karim also. But Atem could break this curse. He would defeat the Thief and bring on eternal peace for the Kingdom. He could do it. He had to, and there was no other outcome that he could believe in.

The tears were sullying his robes, but Atem didn't care, and it was a detail that struck the Priest as odd to notice at the time. This whole ordeal was something that he hadn't been expecting—in all of his years, he had never thought that they would be like this, falling apart, a family losing its members one by one without explanation. There was no advice that Mahaad could give his lover now, nothing that he could say to make things fit together and make sense and be logical. The destruction of the world was no logical by any means. Not by a long shot. If he was going to die, then at least he would be protecting his Pharaoh, staying by his side and making sure that he was alright even when things weren't. If he could die keeping his Pharaoh strong, so that he could be the hope that the Gods were crying out for, then his life would be well lived. He and Atem had never been together in the way that he wanted; their classes and titles and manners had always gotten in the way. But like this—like this, he was sure that he would be alright. He would survive until his time kind.

…he had been wrong. There was something else that he could say to Atem. He pressed golden hair between his fingers, bringing the Pharaoh's ear to his lips. "At times, memories are all that can sustain us. Just as time passes in our minds, the people pass through the land. The people are the memories of the land." It had always been about the people, and Mahaad knew—if he were to do this, be selfish like this, encourage the Pharaoh and take advantage of him in his time of weakness—it should be for the people.

~FIN~

* * *

EDIT: I'm sorry that I rushed like that on the "Author's Notes". For anyone who did get to see how ridiculously short it was, it pretty much said, "Get back to you later." and then listed the quotes that I used below. I got the story in on time, though, so I can go ahead and take my time typing the notes.

I tried something that was suggested in the last story: I was told that the (scene shift) sections disrupted the story, but that in the story before that one, just having lines made the ending feel abrupt without there being a bridge to my notes, so I tried a variation this time: there's an indicator at the end of the story, but I use the horizontal lines instead of the text breaks. Please let me know how this worked. Is it better? Worse?

Now that I have the time to expound, let me explain a few things: first, with the names. I'm aware that the Japanese have to add vowels to the end of everything, hence "Atemu" instead of "Atem" and "Mahaado" instead of "Mahad" and all of that jazz. I hate using "Atemu", so I took the 'u' off, but I liked Mahaad with two 'a's, and so I left it that way. There are two priests that aren't mentioned here, Shada and Aknadin. I really didn't want to bother wasting time on a snippets with them, particularly because I didn't think that the two of them were -that- important. At least, not when I'm rushing to get this in because I have a midterm today. So I suppose it'll stay this way. The ending is rushed. A lot. I just didn't have the time. I'd like to think that the grammar isn't that bad, but I really didn't have time to go over it, so again, like the last one, please let me have it, with quotes if it's not too much trouble.

These drabbles were supposed to show this pairing for the strained thing that it would be—hints and gestures hidden behind who they are supposed to be. There are a lot of stories where heavily veiled but deep rooted connections aren't displayed with that level of detail, and although I'm better at lemons I wanted to do something a bit more touching, involving the barrier between the two of them and the thing that connected them—Atem's status to the people. It's difficult to have a romance with so much to worry about, especially in the AE that we watched on the show. I don't think that a romance between these two characters would be easy to create at the point that we were introduced to these characters, and I wanted to give that small bit of frustration a place in the story, so that the reader can say "Why is all this stuff happening? Can't things be peaceful so that they can be together?" Most often in history, the answer to that question is no.

Here are the quotes that I borrowed:

A man has cause for regret only when he sows and no one reaps. - Charles Goodyear

There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. We must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures. - William Shakespeare

War makes thieves and peace hangs them. - George Herbert

Men become old, but they never become good. - Oscar Wilde


End file.
